


LAX, 0200 hours

by snsk



Category: Youtube RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5591962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/pseuds/snsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you know that pic of connor at the airport waiting for his flight to perth? yeah? yeah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	LAX, 0200 hours

Troye,

there are approximately twenty-one hours (give or take bad weather, air carrier issues, the NAS) until I see you next. Good stuff. Can't complain. Perhaps I will slip this note (folded up two, three times, minimised, a secret) into your back pocket when you rush forward to hug me, sending us both toppling to the ground (safely out of view of the Airport Fans, of course, of which there are always at least a few - I see one tweeting the pics they surreptitiously snapped of me a coupla minutes ago; sneaky, but not sneaky enough for The Franta (yeah, yeah, I know, _stop calling yourself that_ )).

Perhaps I won't, though. Perhaps I'll slide it into the side compartment of my suitcase, keep it until the New Year, keep it for weeks, months and months, and ages later I'll finally get around to cleaning the mess that's accumulated in my various items of luggage and I'll unfold this note and it'll feel exactly like it does now, 2 am on a Sunday night: 2 am my time, 5 pm your time, me owl-eyed with my sleep schedule damaged beyond repair and you just stumbling into the kitchen after a nap 'cause your mum's asked for some help with dinner.

Sunday nightmorning 2 am, then. Fluorescent lights sharp in my eyes (to keep the weary traveller from dozing off and missing his flight, sharp move there Unknown LAX Higher Ups) and comforting weight of suitcase at my feet, rough sturdy canvas against soft sturdy denim. Smells of enclosed air-conditioned space, smells of hot oil-drenched chicken nuggets the kid in front of me just begged their mom to buy. Everywhere tired, waiting features, either that or too-awake speech ("fuck! I know, she went on for ages about that tiny-" excited blonde with seaweed green streaks on my left, legs on the seat opposite and talking to a sister(?)). Voice on intercom announces there's only ten minutes left to board QH 456. QH 456's not my flight.

Stretching my legs out, 'cause excited blonde's casual slump reminds me they've been in the same position for an hour. Neck hurts from bending over my phone. Nicola's told me I have _terrible_ posture. Fuck you, Nicola. 11%; I'll start up the good old power bank on the plane. Text from you: a photo of pasta being strained, angel's hair, Laurelle's hip slightly blurred, you're a dick for making me realise I'm hungry, Mellet. I wonder if the kid'll let me have a delicious steaming nugget. Maybe I'll ask, maybe it'll make for a good video

~~Hello what's up everyone, so the other day I was sitting in the airport, waiting for a flight, and I was starving! Like literally i could've eaten my luggage (jumpcut of play-eating luggage? too cute??) and guess what sitting right across from me was (exaggerate the amount of nuggets this kid has AHHH IDK maybe too boring?????~~

I'll ask you about it when I get there. You know how long nights spent in airports waiting for flights acquire a sort of dreamy timeless didn't-quite-happen quality? Of course you know, you've spent enough of them waiting for them with me. If you were here you'd have the length of your arm touching mine, singing under your breath a song only you know the lyrics to for now, that or London Grammar, or Bibio, or Frank. Or Mtns, or Lorde, or Wonder. Or if it was later, and we were at a more secluded gate, a lonelier flight: your legs across the seatrest, head on my lap, a smile and a yawn and you reaching up to absently pat at my cheek: _Babe wake up_ , code for _I'm falling asleep, talk to me._

Writing this on a scrap torn out of a note pad, writing this on my macbook not quite off, white half-bitten fruit translucent through the paper. I was never the one all that great with writing; remember the Skype sessions, the hotel room nights (you on your back on the sheets staring into the screen (I could see my words reflected in your eyes, filling me with a strange sense of comfort)) you helped me twist my sentences into something resembling sense? My _creative consultant,_ were those the words I used? Told my grandad I was in love with a boy yesterday, before I finished packing. He asked to see a photo. I did him one better: showed him the vid of you on Fallon. "He dances like a puppet," was his critical input. _tell him to teach me some moves,_ you texted me back, laughing emoji, but there's something I didn't tell you, because it's cheesy as all hell: he asked me _Love, huh,_ and I said _yeah, he's my best friend._

Hours and hours upon hours and more hours, I can't even remember enough to approximate the time I've spent travelling these past two years, and my dad said on Boxing Day _that's a long flight, Con,_ and my mom sort of smiled and put her hand on his shoulder. She told me to pack fluids because the airport prices for drinks were exorbitant, and I said _I know, right?_ and she smiled again, in that weird way moms have when they sigh at a baby picture where you look like a snot-faced troll. I thought it was just because she was sad I was leaving again, already, but I think I understand a bit. Hours and hours and hours, airport crowded and noisy, airports dreamy at 2am, 3, you at the end of this otherworldly transcendence between continents and time zones, and whatever will happen eventually, ages, decades on, a year when I find this note again, I'll never regret them.

Yawned, stretched, almost dropped the pen. Perhaps it's a sign that I need to get me some of those incredible-smelling nuggets. Perhaps I'll slide this into your jacket pocket after all, you snuffing your face into my neck, you saying _babe!_ warm and delighted, curls in my mouth, curls tickling my cheek. How _could_ I regret anything?

I'm glad I'm spending the New Year with you, Troye.

love,  
Connor


End file.
